


Maybe in Another Lifetime

by brunnhildc



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: BUT THEN IT WASNT, I love the howling commandos, M/M, honestly this is just a bunch of headcanons stringed together, this was ABOUT to be sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 22:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16543661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brunnhildc/pseuds/brunnhildc
Summary: “Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield.”Steve heard the words— his heightened senses forced him to. But they didn’t even scratch the surface of what he and Bucky had had. However, it did give him a reason to believe that maybe the times hadn’t completely left him behind.He wondered how Bucky would react to seeing himself in a museum like this, but his better judgment told him that Bucky wouldn’t give a single shit.





	Maybe in Another Lifetime

**Author's Note:**

> alrighty boys we we fucked around and published this bitch. it was in my notes for a while and i didn’t know what to do with it so here we are. also it’s my first fic so PLEATHE don’t bully me

— 1942.  
“107th. Sergeant James Barnes, shipping out for England first thing tomorrow.” 

It didn’t seem real. The words themselves existed, of course, but they couldn’t be processed. As if it were in another language. You hear the words, but they just pass over your head. In one ear, out the other. They lack depth and meaning. You don’t even realize it until the reality hits you like a fucking truck. 

“First thing tomorrow.” 

Steve didn’t realize it until he woke up the next morning. Alone, cold, and losing the battle against his tears, no matter how much he bit his lip. The emptiness in his heart dwarfed the emptiness in his bed.

 

—————

 

— 1945.  
“Stevie?” Came a voice. Steve didn’t need to hear who said it. Only one person called him Stevie.

“I’m trying to sleep,” Steve replied, agitation clear in his voice. The two of them were snuggled together inside Steve’s tent. Just two days ago, two soldiers— Jacques Dernier and Gabe Jones, if you want names— were discharged for doing exactly what they were; but Steve was this group’s greatest asset, they’d never voluntarily get rid of him. And Bucky? It would be bold of them to assume anyone could get rid of Bucky without also getting rid of Steve. 

“What if...” Bucky trailed off, hesitating because he knew he’d get laughed at for what he was about to say, “...what if I grew my hair out? Y’know, after the war.” 

“You–“ Steve rolled onto his back and laughed, “Grow out your hair? Why?”

“I guess I just needed to say it, get it off my chest,” Bucky answered, rolling onto his back and staring up at the tent.

That was a complete lie, and Steve knew it. Steve knew why Bucky wanted to grow out his hair. It seemed so vivid in his mind; that one clear summer day of 1930 and, although the times weren’t at their best and the economy was only getting worse, there was no overbearing war at all. 

—

“Steve!” Rebecca’s eyes lit up when she saw his small frame leaning on her living room doorway. She would have gotten up and hugged Steve tightly if not for Winifred Barnes braiding her delicate, rich brown hair. Steve responded with a small smile as he looked down at his unpolished shoes.

“Steve...” Bucky lowly spoke, “...do you know how to do that?”

“Do what?” 

“...That.” Steve glanced up to see Bucky gesture towards Becca, but it takes him a moment to notice exactly what he’s talking about. 

“The braids?” 

“Yeah.”

Steve looked up once more, to see Bucky focusing on it. The way the strands weaved together perfectly. But his eyes gave a look of... confusion. Eight–year–old Becca was oblivious. Steve thought it was incredibly impractical that Bucky wouldn’t know how to braid— hadn’t he observed it time after time? 

Next thing you know, Bucky took his mother’s place, desperately attempting to successfully weave the grouped–together strands of thin hair, to no prevail. 

“Left over, right over, left over, right over,” Becca would instruct him, but over and over again he’d undo the last thing he did. It was dumb, no doubt, but it truly was adorable; not like Steve would say it out loud. Then Becca grumpily huffed, “You’re horrible at this!” 

“Maybe you could grow your hair out long and practice on yourself,” Steve joked. Bucky paused for just a moment and smiled, like he was actually considering it, and the image in his mind was pleasant.

Becca’s loudness snapped him out of it. “Why would he do that? He’d never get a girl that way!” 

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed then repeated, “I’d never get a gal that way.” 

Steve observed closely, picking up every mistake and noting, mentally, how he could do it better. But seeing Bucky laugh at Becca’s frustration, it was perfect. Steve would be fine if Bucky never stopped smiling and never stopped laughing and just never stopped being happy. Of course, that wasn’t practical. He knew that if anyone caught him thinking this way… God, he didn’t want to think about it. Hypothetically, though, it was a very nice dream. Maybe in another lifetime.

Fuck. Why did Steve always find himself saying those words? Maybe it was Bucky’s voice, etched perfectly into his mind that whenever something didn’t go his way, the words played over again in his mind.

Or maybe... maybe it was just Bucky.

—

“Sounds like a dumb idea,” Steve told him with the brutal honesty that Bucky has grown to adore, “so it suits you, huh?” 

“I’m not the one who volunteered to do dangerous experiments with a scientist I barely knew. Don’t lecture me on what’s dumb and what isn’t.” Bucky teased with joking malice, subconsciously intertwining his hands with his boyfriend’s.

“Yeah, but you prefer this me over the old one, don’t ya?” Steve asked. 

“Well, considering I don’t have to keep you from getting beaten to death by someone double your size in a back alley twice a week,” bucky reasoned, when in truth, he would always prefer the ‘old’ Steve, “yeah, I guess I do.” 

“Shut the fuck up, before I make you,” Steve falsely threatened.

Bucky turned his head, looking straight into the blue of his lover’s eyes. There was something else hidden there. Something distinct, something distinguishable, but not too common. 

Bucky sat up and rose an eyebrow. “Is that a damn challenge?” 

“I mean,” Steve scoffed, then looked back only to find that Bucky reciprocated that same distinguishable look— desire. He then finished, “...only if you want it to be.” 

“I accept,” Bucky muttered, and, in the odd privacy of their tent, he grabbed the back of Steve’s head and pressed their lips together. Bucky retracted his hands until his ring fingers lined Steve’s jawline. 

Before either of them fully settled in, Steve pulled away for a moment and decided, “You know, long hair might not be such a bad idea. At least then, I’ll have something to run my fingers through.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky muttered, keeping his voice low, the words occupied with nothing other than annoyance, “just kiss me already, you little shit.” 

 

—————

 

— 2014.  
But that was decades ago. During the war. Since then, the times have changed. The times have endured so many wars and so much pain and sorrow and discrimination that it was able to evolve and emerge stronger than ever before. Alas, the times left behind the two men that had fallen under the illusion they couldn’t survive without a war. But most don’t realize the times have ever left you behind until after the fact. 

Steve Rogers, however, was able to see it before his own eyes. Only the day after what happened in the tent, Steve Rogers had to watch as the love of his life fell to his death. He watched as the times decided: that cold mountain in 1945 was where Bucky Barnes— the only howling commando to give his life in service of his country— would remain for the rest of history. 

“Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield.” 

Steve heard the words— his heightened senses forced him to. But they didn’t even scratch the surface of what he and Bucky had had. However, it did give him a reason to believe that maybe the times hadn’t completely left him behind. 

He wondered how Bucky would react to seeing himself in a museum like this, but his better judgment told him that Bucky wouldn’t give a single shit. 

That lead him to wonder, what would Bucky do after the war? Surely, he wouldn’t be the same. Nothing would never be the same. Bucky would no longer have to look after his best friend every second of the day. Maybe that was a good thing.

He’d no longer have to look after you. Those words ran through Steve’s head.

 

—————

 

— 1934.  
“Stevie?” came a voice. Steve didn’t need to hear who said it. Only one person called him Stevie. 

He practically burst through the door, relief washing over him when he heard the small voice from the other room. “Yeah, Buck?” 

As Bucky approached the room, the sound increasingly louder with every step. One would think after 3 days of hearing it, he’d be capable of tuning it out, but he wasn’t.

The past few days, Bucky continued to visit the nurse a few buildings down from steve’s apartment building; her name was Ms. Johnson— a young, pretty brunette. Bucky couldn’t care less. He’d come to her every time Steve acquired a new symptom. For a few days, her diagnosis was unintelligible. It seemed all of Steve’s preexisting conditions— along with new, unforeseen ones—got together and said, ‘hey, let’s make this bitch suffer.’ 

First it was headaches. Then frequent states of nausea. Bucky could deal with that. Only when Steve started vomiting after every few meals did he worry. Then breathing became harder. 

Eventually, Ms. Johnson told him the symptoms indicated pneumonia. Bucky vividly recalled himself choking back the sobs rising in his throat. Not only did Steve’s expansive list of existing conditions lessen his chance of surviving, one could say he was diagnosed rather late.

So, he went home like nothing was wrong. Bucky continued to tell Steve it was just a cold, and that he’d get over it, but they each knew very well how incorrect both those statements were. 

December nine. Steve’s symptoms were only growing worse, the wintry weather was only growing colder, and Bucky would be damned if he knew how much time Steve had left. 

“Steve?” Bucky called, receiving a weak ‘yeah’ from Steve’s room. “I wanna...tell you something.” 

“What is it?” Steve tilted his head a bit. Jesus, it was adorable when he did that. 

“It’s been on my mind for a while now...” Bucky trailed off, conjuring up all of his courage.

“Now or never, Buck.” 

“Yeah, now or never...” Bucky deeply inhaled and exhaled. It really was now or never, right? The words that seemed to be stuck on his lips seemed so foreign and, blurting before he found himself backing out, “uh, Steve, I think I’m in love with you.” 

“Huh?” was the only response he got. The look in Steve’s tired eyes were an unforeseen combination of shock, confusion and... relief?

After deciding to elaborate, Bucky desperately searched for the words that would adequately even begin to explain how he felt, “I know, you’re gonna hate me. I know that being in love with my boy best friend makes me queer, but I don’t know how much time you have left— If you were gone before I ever got it off my chest…. I would have never been able to live with myself. I needed to say it before you were gone. But now you know that I love you. So do what you want but I always have loved you and I always will. You can hate me, kick me out, whatever, but there are bigger things than us being queer, Steve— the world always has been bigger than that, and it always will be.” 

He wasn’t planning to say this much. But the words that were trapped in his mind were just spewing out, beyond his control.  
Steve just sat there, on the edge of his bed, staring at his best friend. It took him far too long to process the words that were coming at him.

Bucky continued, passionately as ever as the tears inevitably gathered at his eyes, “Why try and fight it, right? If we don’t have much time left, and today could very well be your last day, let’s just spend it basking in the glory of how queer and how gay we are, right?” 

“Buck, please, someone is gonna hear you,” Steve’s voice was soft and quiet. It’s not that he didn’t want to hear the words— he’s waited his entire life to hear those words— but he wouldn’t want to put them both in jeopardy just because some asshole neighbor blows their cover. 

“Who cares if someone hears me? I love you, Steven Grant Rogers, and I would shout it from the goddamn rooftops if I could!” The first tear escaped his eyes and streaked down his cheek. “Maybe in another lifetime, we wouldn’t have to be a secret. But for now, can you just have some faith in the world?” 

Neither of them said a word now. Only the cold apartment air was between them. Bucky was the first to break the barrier as he took a few steps toward Steve.

“You know what nobody will hear, Stevie?” Bucky asked him. His voice was soft and small, gentle and kind. 

“You’re beautifully predictable, Buck,” Steve responded, smiling. Before Bucky could react, Steve dragged down his best friend’s shoulders, used his thumb to wipe away the single tear, and sealed their lips together. That seemed to clear the air of the painful, confused silence. 

Steve pulled away, and mumbled, near silently, “I love you.” 

Bucky repeated that, before it was too late. 

 

—————

 

— 1942.  
The few soldiers that weren’t sleeping were gathered around a fire, sharing small anecdotes, bursting into bouts of hearty laughter every once in a while, with the occasional joking and not joking tormenting.

One of the soldiers gathered was Bucky, one of the quieter soldiers and not one to talk very often. Albeit he wasn’t too interested, he snapped to attention at one question. 

“Any of you fellas got a girl back home?” This one was young, couldn’t have been younger than maybe nineteen. Another soldier was already describing his broad, which led to a few others adding their thoughts. 

After the chatter died down a bit— not completely, but before the topic of conversation was to be inevitably shifted— Bucky spoke. “I got a dame waiting for me back home.” 

“Barnes speaks!” Falsworth jokingly declared.

“Oh, where do I begin...” Bucky thought for a moment of what to say. That was genuine. He could go on for days about her. “Blonde little dame, and she’s got eyes bluer than you’ve ever seen. Small, but she never let that hold her back. Her mind was always filled with opinions. The fire in her mind was always ablaze. It burned brighter and quicker then a fuckin’ 35–millimeter nitrate film print. Always had something to say. Couldn’t shut up for her own good,” Bucky huffed out a small laugh, “but I wouldn’t change a thing.” 

“Poetic,” commented a soldier that Bucky didn’t care to recognize, “you gonna marry her?” 

“Uh,” Bucky looked down, unknowingly biting his lip to stop him from crying (a trait that he’d picked up from Steve) because the reality only hit him now— even if he did survive this war, he’d never get to marry Steve. Maybe in another lifetime, he’d always say, have some faith in the world. “If I survive this war.” 

—————

— 2017.  
“How long until we’re there?” Steve impatiently repeated. He’d asked the same question eleven times already. 

“Five minutes, Captain,” replied Shuri, annoyance present in her tone.

Steve wringed his hands together. Nervousness clawed at his mind. He was supposed to be excited for this, right? If only Bucky had seen how quick Steve was to get on a jet to Wakanda, he’d be astonished. 

Now Steve was presented with the beautiful city, but he couldn’t seem to focus on it. Not only was it six–thirty in the morning, but his thoughts kept gravitating toward the man on his mind, like a goddamn magnet. 

Next thing he knew, Shuri was leading him across a field, one that looked over the beautifully vast base to what Steve assumed was an equally astonishing river. He wondered what happened in the past ten minutes— when they passed the city, why they landed in this small village on the outskirts of Wakanda; and those were just for starters. But those questions seemed foolish to inquire; Shuri was brilliant, from what Steve had heard of her. Everything she did held a purpose. 

Steve strolled alongside Shuri— the Dora Milaje warriors were left near the jet, Shuri having given them the signal and a brief order in Xhosa. 

They reached a point maybe fifteen, twenty feet away from where lake water met land. As Steve looked to Shuri, awaiting anything she was going to inform or instruct or simply say to him. 

But she did nothing except turn away from Steve. It didn’t bother him in the slightest, just confused him. Instead, her body faced a small hut.

“Sergeant Barnes!” she called.

Steve looked down. Jesus poke–me–with–a–stick Christ, he hadn’t heard those two words in so long. And although the hadn’t heard a full sentence leave Bucky’s lips since 1945, he could hear his voice as clear as it was in 1942:

“Sergeant James Barnes, shipping out for England first thing tomorrow.” 

But Steve was snapped out of his memory when the voice spoke not just in his mind, but in reality. At first, Bucky didn’t even notice Steve. 

“How many times must I tell you, Bucky is fine...” he trailed off, Bucky having fallen into a state of complete amazement as he said it. “...Steve.”

“Buck,” Steve smiled, undoubtedly the brightest and most genuine in a while. 

“I’ll leave you two alone for a bit,” Shuri smiled, pivoting on her heel and happily striding back to the jet. The Dora Milaje warriors obediently followed. The jet lifted off the ground and zoomed away. 

“Stevie...” Bucky said, taking deep breaths, as if he couldn’t find the words he so badly wanted say. Steve was surprised when all he said was, “get in here.” 

Once they were inside the hut Bucky had emerged from, that’s when 95 years caught up to them both.

Bucky connected his lips with Steve’s and, Christ, it felt so natural. He felt the most at home he may have ever had. He had forgotten the softness and how well their lips fell together, and it all came crashing back. 

Steve settled in quickly. Immediately, his fingers ran through Bucky’s hair and curled, like paths between the follicles that were made just for him.

Steve pulled away, much to Bucky’s annoyance, and remarked, “Ya know, last time we did this, your hair was shorter.” 

“You expect me to ask you to braid my hair or somethin’?” 

“Depends,” Steve glanced down then back up into the blue of the other man’s eyes, “...just like Mama Barnes used to?”

“Yeah,” Bucky smiled in reassurance and mumbled in response, “Just like Mama Barnes.” 

Maybe it was his scent; it was different, of course, and he needed to memorize it while the small window of opportunity was open. Maybe it was the physical contact; his skin was harsh and brusque to the touch. But yet, the was still there. And that’s when Steve knew what is was.

Or maybe... maybe it was just Bucky. Maybe Bucky was home.

Perhaps it seemed out of place, the two men just standing in the hut holding one another like tomorrow would be their last day, but they did not give a single shit. But then again, they were out of place. Everyone they knew is gone. The times left behind the two men that had fallen under the illusion they couldn’t survive without a war— but they still had each other. They’d always say to each other, maybe in another lifetime.

“Buck,” Steve whispered, because he didn’t have any reason to be louder, “remember what we’d always say? Maybe… maybe in another lifetime?”

“Yeah…? And?” Bucky responded in the same tone.

“Y’know,” Steve paused, taking a moment to inhale and exhale, “maybe this is our other lifetime.”


End file.
